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I’ve been with my experience. My experience has been on my mind, the thing I write about. But I speak not of an experience but of experience itself, for I have experienced little these past months, and so perhaps because of that I’ve become more attuned to the form of my experience itself.

This morning I walked up the side staircase of my building. I looked out the window at the snowfall, and I had a vague impression; the way I can best express it is that it seemed clear for a moment that nothing mattered but my immediate state; it seemed that was the only thing, and I hadn’t to worry about anything else, because there wasn’t anything else. The world seemed flat but simple at least.

It wasn’t simply that I'd ceased to care or think about anything else. It was more that there wasn’t anything else, as if I were only really capable of experiencing and remaining in what was around me rather than experience the ordinary confusion of experience in which the past and future, through the mind, modify it essentially. What am I saying? That the only thing that seemed to be at that moment was what was; it was not an infinite world that came down on me but instead it seemed experience went no further than my state; I felt my fatigue and saw the sleepy snowy world around. I felt my body, my mood, the mode I had been in, and the mode seemed like the only thing I could ever know. I was in that mode then, but I may be in another mode another time, and when the world seems different, it’s only because my mode shifted. In that moment, on the staircase, I seemed to experience my state, and the rest of the world could hardly matter, not because it meant nothing to me but because I experienced and perceived my own state first, and everything else only came afterwards, and I experienced the rest only mediated by my state, and so if I felt the obsession of the obsessive state from the day before it is not because the object of my obsession has inflamed me again but because I’ve shifted to that state of obsession. I act with and as obsession and the desired object out in the world is only incidental.

So little of myself can I actually call myself.

It can take the joy out of so much to reduce them to that ⏤ I’ve spoiled my desires, believing them to be so impure from the perspective of idealism and romance, believing that they were only base and animal states adapting poorly to a modern world. And yet more and more it seems to me that my state determines everything ⏤ what matters; what I want or even what is true ⏤ and so my way, my approach, the way I engage with the world, is determined entirely by my underlying states, or modes beyond my control. Not simply a mood, but the entirety of my experience bound up with my state ⏤ my mode ⏤ and what I am or how I approach the world is determined by an oscillation between modes like masks of personas, like a head turning 360 to show many faces; there is only a gap between each face, no gradient, only the modes, the states that generate personalities through determining another approach to the world.

The days go by and I hope to align my machine to take on those states that make me feel best, but that’s near impossible, I think. Circumstance will never permit so much control, and that’s natural.


Things matter and cease to matter, seem like everything and then like nothing, like truth and then like falsity. Sometimes our world becomes about something ⏤ something seems as if it may be just what will present life according to the aspect ⏤ the image ⏤ we desire to not only perceive it as but to experience it as.

I’ve begun to doubt we can ever really experience the image. Once we begin to live it we occupy not the image but the bare reality that it had concealed. The image can only be appreciated from a distance, though it needn’t be so far. I look over across the room, at my vintage road bike leaning on the wall beneath the window, adjacent to my desk, on the desk my synth, speakers and a laptop, the surface of the table a grey concrete, the walls white, sleek grey black white, a leafy plant hanging over ⏤ I look at all of this from across the room; it isn’t very far, and yet I can perceive an image I’ve long longed to possess or occupy ⏤ perhaps only possession is possible, in the sense that it is there and mine, but to occupy it, to experience or live it, as I’ve been saying, may be an impossibility, and I only need to walk over there and immerse myself in it to know that by nature and by necessity the image will vanish once I’ve approached it.

The image contrived in that corner of my studio, how can I communicate it? I’ll admit I’ve done a poor job so far, but I must try harder, since image is what holds these reflections together.

An image entered my imagination soon after leaving home for the west coast. The image guided me for many years, and just as soon as it began to die out I came to live it, without being able to see it any longer, until moments such as these when a perception, in this case my bike along the wall by my desk, recalled to me the image through the affectation of an impression.

The image had been of a particular sort of life, one that I longed for. To be taken from the sordid and banal images of my own life, and have instead the picture of a young and fashionable life in the city. A studio in a building with character, with characters also living the life; not far from the core, in a neighborhood with a vibe, living life like its nothing, embodying the image, as if finding the wavelength on which one it carried away by life because life really begins and begins to be beautiful at that moment.

The image is the thing that directs one; it seems to contain or rather be everything one wants in a beautiful life presented as a singular and complete image in one’s mind.

And now it’s only feet away, and yet more unreal than ever, for I know I need only approach it for it all to vanish again.

Breaking away ⏤ that seems like a good way to put it, considering how it all felt, or rather how it felt to be in that state, and then to finally break away to the next, to an entirely different way of experiencing (perhaps experience isn’t as fluid as imagined, it may really be a shifting of more or less determinate and distinct states, like the various modes an electronic may take, performing one function and then another, but never vaguely and fluidly performing a general undecided function).

Now I’m at a cafe, writing in my journal. My head feels free and open; it’s difficult to really say what is significant about the way my head feels but really it feels much different than it had when I’d been in that state of focus earlier, a kind of focus that caused my head to feel zoomed in and tensed, full of rushing and indistinct thought, while my eyes held tight to a sight, scanning it, my head heavy tight, and warm too maybe. It’s like I’m buzzing, like a light with a constant high pitched buzz, tense at the high pitch, droning on but without ever laxing, my eyes scanning the sight with a focus much like the buzzing, my state really only plainly explainable through that sound and sensation. To break the prolonged tension is to break away from a kind of static hypnosis, not spinning but droning the same.

And here I am in a state so distinct that it seems to me so natural to understand it as a separate and distinct mode of being. And how am I now?

Still susceptible to getting drawn in, as I just was and have just recovered from. Drawn into the screen of my phone, but really that isn’t the point, the screen I mean, because the state is my own and it is elicited by various causes, all of them one kind of obsession or another, obsession thus perhaps something more like a state of being.

Obsession, addiction, the former as a state perhaps not at all different from the latter. Falling into the buzzing state, so driven so quickly one hardly has a coherent thought but the vague diffusions of image in the mind is singular insofar as it concerns the obsession over one thing.

The obsession was there before the drugs. But I’m not so sure about the nature of the obsession. I often assign to myself the most vain and frivolous motives, because I believe the meaningful explanations we give ourselves are fictions designed to fit the fiction of our self, then quite unaware of the more primal banality.

No, I don’t obsess over the object because there is any sort of special affinity between it and myself, but because it has become the object of my state, the obsessive focused state. Nothing ideal drives me, it's rather an appetite, one capable of controlling me, causing my mind to become so singular, tight and cyclical like a band.

It’s tempting to accept the fiction that there is some affinity between my person or persona or personality and the object of my obsession; then the pursuit and the capturing at all costs ⏤ at such great cost at least ⏤ would all seem worth it, almost fated ⏤ as it ought to be ⏤ but what an invention, that ought, and what a fiction it is that generates it. It is simply base unchecked desire itself, assuming too great a control; though so common to me, to my father, and people like me. At moments like these I fear for myself, because of that unlimited desire, and I regret the pain and neglect it may mean for others. But at times like these I really see how it may be driving me more than I realize, perhaps driving me somewhere, maybe that’s where I am going, this drive the most significant mover of my life.